Chapter 6
ASHER
Grace takes a long sip of her wine, tilting the glass back like she’s relying on the alcohol to help get her through this. For a brief moment, I wonder if I should be offended that she needs wine to be in my presence, but I brush it off, chalking it up to her nerves.
We’re silent as Lisette enters the dining room with two dishes of salad. She serves us and then looks at me to make sure there’s nothing else needed before she goes back to the kitchen.
“You have staff?” Grace says. I’m not sure if it’s a question or an observation.
“I do.” When I find her hazel eyes still focused on me, I assume she wants me to continue. “Lisette is my house manager.”
“What does a house manager… do?” Her brow furrows adorably, and I’m reminded of the fact that Grace and I come from completely different worlds.
She’s not used to having staff at her beck and call, and she surely doesn’t realize that my two employees are basically nothing in comparison to what I grew up with.
Telling her that won’t earn me any points, though. So instead, I answer her question.
“Lisette works five days a week. She makes sure everything in the house is running smoothly, prepares all my meals, cleans, etcetera. She’s worked for me for a few years now.”
She nods, unfolding her napkin and smoothing it over her lap. “I met your driver. Is there anyone else?”
“No.” I stab a piece of lettuce with my fork and bring it to my mouth.
Grace presses her lips together and nods, and we sit in silence, save for the sound of forks against plates and soft chewing.
Lisette comes back in and removes the finished salads before replacing them with plates of grilled chicken, Brussel sprouts, and brown rice.
My preferred dinner always consists of a lean protein, a vegetable, and a complex carb.
Grace drags her fork through the rice as if she's assessing it.
I get the feeling that this isn't how she normally eats.
She'll just have to get over it. I bite back the question in my throat that wants to pick at her eating habits, knowing I'll sound just like my father if I do. So instead, I steer the conversation in a different direction.
"Tell me about your family."
Grace slowly chews a piece of chicken while I wait for her to answer.
"I grew up on a Christmas tree farm."
I feign surprise, not wanting to reveal that I've already had her looked into and know this particular fact. All I know about Grace is a list of facts. Where she grew up, where she went to school, etc.
"Sounds like the beginning of a Hallmark movie," I settle on saying.
Grace smiles and lets out a dainty little giggle, and I decide I love the sight and sound. I can't remember the last time I heard someone laugh and wasn't annoyed or plotting something. I guess I am plotting something with her, but something about her laugh feels real, not strategic.
"Have you ever watched a Hallmark movie?" Grace asks, one eyebrow raised and her fork midair.
My face pinches as I try to withhold my own smile. "No."
She laughs again, slicing through all the tension. I can feel my shoulders drop, and Grace seems more relaxed.
Maybe this can work.
Not that I think this will turn into something real. I have no desire to stay married. But for a year, I can be friendly with Grace and make this time manageable. Maybe even enjoyable.
"My dad inherited the farm from his father, and my older brother will inherit from him. Owen's been preparing for that his whole life," Grace adds once her laughter slows.
I can't deny the resemblance to my own family company, only instead of it being a known fact that I'll inherit our legacy, I'm having to fight for it.
"How many siblings do you have?" I ask.
"Two brothers," she tells me between bites. "Owen and Luke. What about you?"
I don't like being on the other end of questioning. I have half a mind to tell her this conversation is for me to get to know her, but I realize that's wrong before the words even leave my mouth. She also needs to know me. She can't play her role if she doesn't.
"It's complicated with my family." I push down my discomfort and swallow a few gulps of water. "We're not very close."
Not close is an understatement. While it's important to my mother that we display the perfect picture of a loving and wholesome family, we're anything but. My parents couldn't even raise us; we had nanny after nanny stepping in to fill the role.
"I have two brothers and a sister," I tell her.
Grace nods and sips her ginger ale. "Are you the oldest?"
"No." I shake my head. Sometimes it feels like I'm the oldest. The one with all the weight on my shoulders, but I'm the second child.
Once, in what feels like another lifetime, my older brother and I were friends.
Back before my father made it his mission in life to pit us against each other and ruin whatever respect we had as brothers.
My younger siblings never had a chance. By the time they were born, Gabe and I had already decided that no one else could be trusted.
But I don't tell Grace any of that. "I have an older brother, Gabe. He's overseas, building clean water systems in third world countries."
Hazel eyes widen in surprise, and then she quickly recovers. "Wow."
That's a normal response to hearing about the charitable work my brother does.
The newspapers and gossip magazines dub him the Saint of the Caine Family.
The good son who's living out the values his parents cherish.
Only, what they get wrong is that his good deeds are spit in the face of my parents.
They wanted him here, living in the city and battling against me for the CEO title.
Instead, six years ago, he dropped everything he had worked for and left.
Only he could infuriate our parents by actually living out the values they print on their annual reports.
With the oldest son out of the picture, the two middle kids finally had their moment to shine.
"What about your sister?" she asks, cutting another piece of chicken and bringing it to her lips.
"Dove works at Sanctum. She's Chief Strategy Officer."
"I don't even know what a Chief Strategy Officer does," Grace mumbles.
"Strategizes," I deadpan, and Grace's eyes flick to mine, assessing how serious I am before her lips tilt into a smile.
"Funny," she retorts. "What about your other brother?"
"He owns Haven."
Grace freezes, her eyes flicking up to meet mine, lips parting with a sharp inhale. I can see her trying to figure out if maybe she misheard me.
"That's why your name sounded familiar," she murmurs to herself. "But— Then why…Why would you—?”
"Do you have a question, Miss Morgan?" I ask, a bit harshly, breaking through her stuttering.
"I was fired."
"You were."
"You could have stopped it." Her voice rises with frustration.
"Maybe."
She scoffs. "Why were you there anyway?"
I lean forward, setting my cutlery down and resting my elbows on the table while I watch her. It seems like a naive question, considering she worked at my brother’s club.
"Why do you think?"
She glances away, pulling her plush bottom lip between her teeth and chewing on it as she avoids answering me. I want to lean forward and release that lip from its trap.
"Grace, look at me." The demand leaves me without a second thought. My siblings would tell you I've always been demanding and that I get my control issues from my father, but right now, I just want to see her eyes during this realization.
I want to know what she thinks of it.
She worked at the club. Shouldn't that mean she's into it? Even just a little bit?
But Grace Morgan seems so innocent. Small-town girl with big city dreams. Did she get in over her head?
"You know what Haven is for, right?"
"Yes," she hisses, then runs a hand through her hair. She's flustered. She doesn't like talking about sex.
I can feel the corners of my lips lifting in amusement. She really is an innocent little thing.
"Did you ever partake?"
Her head rears back slightly. "That's personal."
"We're about to be married."
“Well…” She darts her tongue across her lip and raises her eyes to actually look at me again. “Are you looking for a wife or a submissive?”
She says “submissive” like she’s afraid of what it could mean.
Like the word itself might cause her harm.
I assumed she was a sub. Everything about her radiates that she is, that she likes having someone else take control, to tell her what to do.
It's part of the reason I thought she'd be a perfect fit for this offer.
But now I'm wondering if I was wrong…
“Both,” I say, testing her for a response.
I wouldn't force anyone to sleep with me or practice a kink dynamic that they're not into.
And truthfully, I need a wife in order to take over the company.
That's more important to me than having someone to play with. There are plenty of willing women at Haven, anyway. But I want to know how Grace responds. I need to see if I’m truly wrong about her or if she's as submissive as I think she is.
Her eyes flare at my answer, and she clears her throat. She looks like a deer caught in headlights. My interest in her only increases.
“Are you, like…a sadist or something?” she asks in a whisper that makes me chuckle.
“A sadist?" Is that what she thinks kink is? That everyone who partakes just wants to cause pain. "No.”
“But you are a…?”
“I'm a Dominant. You worked at the club; you don’t know the difference?”
She shakes her head quickly. “I mean, I know some stuff from my friend, Kacey. She’s the one who got me the job there. But I’ve never actually done any of that.” The words spill in a nervous ramble, her sweet expression pinching. “Are you… I mean, do you–”
“Are you asking if I want to fuck you, Miss Morgan?”
Her cheeks pinken at my blunt statement.
She swallows audibly, and then she nods.
“I have certain desires in the bedroom, but I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to.”
She nods again, albeit shakily. “What if I don’t want to have sex?”
That feels like a punch to the gut. Something about Grace has me longing to wrap that caramel hair in my grasp. I want to see how her lips part, how they look with my cock between them. I want to hear all the sounds she’ll make when she comes for me.
The idea of not being able to do any of those things has my hands clenching into tight fists in my lap.
I nod, trying to organize my thoughts.
I've always kept my relationships for short periods, avoiding the possibility of my submissives wanting more from me. They sign a contract and know exactly what they're getting themselves into.
I shouldn't want to have sex with Grace. It will complicate the situation. Make it messy. She'll get attached, and it will be harder for her to leave at the end of the year.
"If that's what you want," I tell her. "We'll keep things professional."
"Yes. That's what I want," she breathes out, but her pupils are dilated, and it feels like she's lying.
"One more thing, though," I add. "You can't be with anyone else.
I can't have my wife caught sleeping with other men, understood?
" It's not a lie. It would be a scandal for her to be caught with someone else, but it's not the entire reason.
A selfish part of me is rearing its ugly head, shouting if I can't have her, no one can.
She bristles at that, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. "What about you?" she retorts.
"What about me?"
"Are you going to sleep with other women?"
I pause for a moment, assessing her gaze. Why does that bother her?
Leaning forward again, I ask, "Will it upset you to know that I'm out with another woman while my wife is at home refusing to sleep with me?"
"Maybe," she says in a way that sounds more like a yes.
"Would you like me to remain celibate with you?"
She pauses for a long moment, considering my question. I'm expecting her to backtrack, but she doesn't.
"I don't think I want my husband caught sleeping around either…" She twists my words right back at me.
I chuckle. "Okay, Miss Morgan. If you accept my deal, we'll have a sexless marriage for one year."
A year without sex sounds like absolute hell to me. And I have a hard time believing that Grace can go without any physical touch for a year. We'll see how long she lasts before she's begging for exactly that.